


Heartbeat

by ackermom



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Fluffy as hell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 04:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4377980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>original kink meme prompt: </p>
<p>Germany/Italy: the realization that the 'b' is being phased out of their bromance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> de-anoned from here: https://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/84699.html?thread=513717467#cmt513717467

Germany doesn’t seem to realize.  
  
To be fair, it’s not his fault; he’s always been clueless about relationships, like he doesn’t really get what love is. That, in itself, is hard for Italy to fathom. Love is the most special feeling in the world, totally indescribable and yet totally identifiable, because when your knees wobble and your heart sings, you know there is nothing else that it could be.   
  
Still, Germany doesn’t seem to realize.

He blushes when Italy takes his arm, his cheeks turning positively cherry red when Italy insists on feeding him gelato, and in public of all places. And on those rare, lazy Sunday afternoons when Italy is able to drag him down for a siesta, he can feel the quick ba-dump-ba-dump of Germany’s heart and the way his breath slights when Italy rests his head on Germany’s shoulder. 

Does he not recognize that feeling?   
  
Maybe he does, and maybe he is too afraid to say anything aloud. Germany has always been quiet, the shy one, especially on the topic of their relationship, hesitant at first to even call it a friendship. Maybe Germany is trying to tell him, in his own way, that he loves him. Maybe Italy is just not listening hard enough.   
  
Italy arrives in Freiburg on a cool June morning, and when he lets himself in, Germany’s dogs circling at his feet, he smiles at the familiar chocolate scent in the air.   
  
“I knew you’d be hungry,” Germany says when he pads into the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind crepes.”  
  
He stands at the stove, a careful eye set on the pan, and he only glances back once, when Italy drops his bag on the table and bounces to hug him.   
  
“Careful,” Germany says, but he smiles.   
  
“I like your apron,” Italy says, pulling out of the hug, and Germany turns back to the stove. Italy reaches for the strings of his apron, the strict knot that’s been tied, and he undoes it, retying it into a bow. “There. That’s much cuter.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
Italy hums, and he wraps himself around Germany again, pressing his nose between Germany’s shoulder blades, arms curling around his chest. He’s warm, like he always is, and this morning he smells Schwarzwald fresh, like summer dew on the trees. Italy closes his eyes.  
  
“There’s coffee,” Germany says, and his voice is small and quiet.  
  
“I’ll have some when the crepes are ready,” Italy murmurs back. He dances his fingers across Germany’s chest until they reach his shoulders, where he wraps his hands tightly upwards, pulling himself closer. In the morning quiet, he can hear Germany’s heart, beating away; he reaches his left hand down to press it against Germany’s chest, to feel the rhythm under his fingers.  
  
“What are you doing?” Germany says, suddenly, fidgeting under his touch.  
  
Italy smiles. “Shh. I’m listening to your heart.”  
  
They stay like that for a moment, Italy’s hands clutched tightly around Germany’s chest, before finally he pulls away, smiling, and goes to pour the coffee.   
  
“I think your heart was talking to me,” Italy says after breakfast, when they’ve taken their spots on the porch swing, empty coffee cups resting forlorn on the breakfast table. He sits under Germany’s arm and swings his feet, sending them back and forth.  
  
“Really?” Germany’s skin is warm against his. “What was it saying?”  
  
Italy pauses, letting the swing slow, before he continues. “I think you can guess,” he says softly, and he can feel Germany’s eyes on him.   
  
“It’s something important,” he continues, “but something that doesn’t always need to be said with words.”   
  
He glances up and meets Germany’s soft gaze; his face is blank, but his eyes are warm and moist, and they only grow warmer when Italy presses a hand to his cheek.  
  
“Some people say it out loud,” he says. “But some people say it quieter: they bring you coffee, or they make you breakfast, and they’re always up for a game of football if you ask, even if they’ve had a long day at work. Some people,” he continues, and he can’t but help smile as he brushes his hand through Germany’s hair, “put chocolate and strawberries in your crepes, and one spoonful of sugar in your coffee, because they know that’s just how you like it.”  
  
And Germany kisses him, then; just barely: just a hand on his cheek and their lips brushing together, warm and sincere for the thinnest second before he pulls his away, his face flushed pink; and he stumbles over his words for a few moments before he finally speaks.   
  
“I should do the dishes,” he murmurs.   
  
Italy smiles. “Want me to help?”  
  
“No, I’ve got it,” Germany says instantly. But he doesn’t move, his hand still cupping Italy’s chin, his eyes still deep blue. He kisses him again, harder, then pulls away again, breathless.   
  
“I’ll bring you another cup of coffee,” he says. He stumbles up and heads inside, but he lingers in the doorway, his eyes still fixed on Italy.   
  
“Veneziano, I,” he says suddenly, and Italy smiles at him.   
  
“I know,” he answers.


End file.
